


A Necessary Pleasure

by straightforwardly



Category: Night Sun Tarot Deck
Genre: M/M, Mild Praise Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Denial, Ritual Sex, Vines As Tentacles, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straightforwardly/pseuds/straightforwardly
Summary: The Third of the Queen’s Circle may have a way to end the war. He just needs an assistant.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



The Page’s steps clipped against the cool stone of the hallway. The walls were carved of what looked like marble, black to his King’s white, the shadow to his King’s light, and far removed from the fire and brimstone of the smoking battlefield in the valley below. 

Far removed, but not forgotten. He could still taste the ash coating his throat.

Before the war, the Page had spent little time in the Queen’s domain; his loyalty had ever only been for the King, and King alone. But since the invasion— since they’d first realized this was no common foe to be frightened or slaughtered by a simple dash of a battalion or show of magic— he spent more of his days playing the messenger, scurrying between the Dual Courts as King and Queen coordinated their troops and plotted strategy. Now he’d grown used to the shadowed corners of the Queen’s halls, had learned the ways that led him to the war chamber and throne room— had even grown used to the sight of the Queen’s lush smile, and to standing— if only for brief moments!— in the same room as his King, breathing in the same air. 

He had grown accustomed to the new routine of war, but on this day, something was different. The summons had arrived in the early hours of the dawn, when the air was so clear and sharp it cut his throat when he breathed it in. He’d just finished his morning exercises, and hadn’t even the time to wipe the cooling sweat from his body before he found himself presented with a message not for the Queen or her generals, but for another member of her court entire. 

And so rather than heading to the well-trodden paths of the castle above, the Page found himself walking the halls leading deeper into the mountains to the quarters of the mages. 

The torches flickered in their sconces. The Page followed the instructions he’d been given, and with time found himself before a simply carved door made of a dark wood that did not grow in their mountains.

He knocked, and the door slowly pulled itself open. From within the room came a voice, deep and soft.

“Come in.”

The Page entered.

He’d never been in a mage’s workshop, but he recognized the room immediately for what it was. Shelves and cabinets lined the walls, filled with books and crystals and objects he didn’t recognize. The floor to the left of him was cleared for rituals; from the corner of his eye he could see the chalk markings of a prepared circle. Directly across from the doorway stood a desk, overcrowded with papers and yet more books, and set in the wall to the left of that was another door, this one with no carvings at all. 

Before the desk stood a man— a mage. The Third of the Queen’s Circle. 

Even if his instructions hadn’t already informed him of _who_ this man was, the Page would have known him for _what_ he was. Magic left its mark on a person, and its practitioners more than most; the Third was no exception. Large horns, like those of the rams that grazed on the steep mountain paths, curved from his head on either side. 

For him to be transformed so markedly, he must have delved deep into the intricacies of magic and tasted its power. 

The Page did not stare. Instead, he took the letter— crisp and neat, with a heavy wax seal— from the pouch at his waist and extended it to the Third. “A message for you.”

The Third accepted it with an incline of his head, and broke the seal with a flick of his nails. As he did so, the Page noted that they too were beginning to grow thicker and more pointed than those of any regular human’s.

The Third read through the message in silence, then looked up at the Page. He studied him for long moments, then smiled a closed-lipped smile.

“Yes,” he said. “You’ll do.”

The Page did not understand. His confusion must have been evident, as after a moment’s pause, the Third asked, “Do you not know why you are here?”

The Page shook his head.

“Ah. I see.” The Third leaned back against his desk, splaying a hand over one of the books. “In my studies I have come across an old ritual, one that should aid our land greatly in the war. I required an assistant; you were sent.” He extended the letter to him, and added, “You may read it for yourself, if you like.”

The Page stepped forward, taking the letter in his own hands. He scanned it quickly, and saw that the Third had spoken true; his King’s own seal marked the parchment.

He looked up. “I know nothing of magic.”

It was not a protest, simply a fact.

“Irrelevant.” The Third’s eyes were intent on his. “I did not ask for another mage for this task, nor do I need one. All I require is someone who will do what I say.”

The Page looked back at the letter, at the dark stain of his King’s seal. He nodded. “What do I need to do?”

“Very little.” The Third cast his gaze over him, examining him. His eyes stopped at the sword always strapped to his side. “First, you will need to remove all symbols of violence.”

The Page obeyed, with only a brief moment’s pause. He knew that the mages of the Pentacles were something other than the half-wild mages of his King’s court, whose magic dealt only in blood and death, but there was still something discomforting about being so disarmed. Still, it was his King’s will: he unbuckled his sword and set it carefully on the ground. 

With a sweep of his arm, the Third gestured to where his ritual circle had been drawn out. “Stand in the center. When the ritual begins, the most important thing to remember is _do not move_.” Then, almost as though it were an afterthought, he added, “You may make sound, of course.”

The Page tensed, then forced himself to relax. Perhaps the mages of the Pentacles did not deal in blood, but he could not help but think that there were more ways to be harmed than to bleed. But this was for his King, his liege and lord. He knew little of magic, and less still of the ways of those outside of the court of the Swords, but his King had sent him here and he had to trust in that. 

One of his fists had clenched, and he unclenched it slowly, before turning to look at the ritual circle drawn on the ground besides him. 

Though perhaps that wasn’t the correct word for it— the primary formation was instead a large _triangle_ , with circles at its edges and forming the patterns within, in such an elaborate array that it made his hands ache to look at. The concentration it would take to draw such a thing—

The Page stepped into the circle, centering himself. The Third turned to face him. “Are you prepared?”

Tension coiled in his gut; the Page shifted to a more comfortable stance, then met the Third’s eyes and nodded. 

The Third said nothing, did nothing, but his eyes flashed gold, and suddenly the Page felt _something_ rise around him— something that had no form, no scent, yet infested the air around him until it crackled against his skin with its power.

Goosebumps rose on his flesh, and he restrained a shiver. The magic hung thick and heavy around him. He steeled himself.

Then it _pulsed_. The ground cracked beneath his feet, and the Page had time only for a moment’s flicker of fear before vines rushed up towards him from the ground below, crawling up around his legs and further still. 

Within moments he was pinioned into place— _like a sacrifice_ , he thought with a hard swallow, but no, the mages of the Pentacles did not deal in blood— with most of the vines wrapped firmly around his legs and over his belly. 

“Very good,” murmured the Third. His eyes gleamed; the Page could not tell whether it was from magic or anticipation.

Then one of the vines reached under his tunic, and wrapped itself firmly around his cock. 

He sucked in a startled breath, and the vine began to _move_ , with gentle, teasing strokes, coaxing his cock to swell into hardness. Another vine moved to push away the folds of his tunic, exposing the sight of his hard cock to open air.

He flushed, wanting to turn away, to cover himself, but the Third’s eyes were hot and intent upon him and he could not look away.

And then he forgot to think, forgot everything but the feel of the vine against his cock and the sight of the Third’s burning golden eyes on him as the vine changed tempo and moved against his cock in long, firm, deliberate tugs— forgot everything but the heat flushing through his body, the pressure building up in him, building up to a crescendo—

And then the vine was gone, just as he nearly reached the peak, and he let out a cry, shuddering at the force of his arousal. It was all he could do to keep from taking himself in hand; only the memory of the Third’s instructions to him— _do not move_ — kept him in check.

“Oh, _very_ good,” said the Third, low and warm. 

But the vines weren’t finished with him yet. They caressed and stroked him, teasing touches at his mouth, his nipples, the juncture of his thighs until he was trembling for the want of their touch. Then they returned to his cock, playing with him, first gentle, then firm, then gentle again, bringing him to the brink over and over before beginning again, until he was sobbing at the aborted pleasure and the effort it took to hold himself still.

And through it all was the low hum of the Third’s voice, murmuring encouragement and praise— telling him how he’d been everything that he was promised, and more.

And still, the vines continued to tease.

Then the vines fell still, even the one around his cock, and he simply stood there, panting and confused and painfully aroused, and horribly aware of the magic still hot and buzzing all around him. For a long moment that was all there was— the sound of his own panting breath, the feel of magic and his own arousal, and the Third’s eyes heavy upon him.

Then one of the vines, secreting some sort of fluid, curled over his buttocks and began pressing into his arse.

The Page made a choking, stuttering sound, and it was only the other vines wrapped around his legs that kept them from shaking as the vine pushed its way further inside. He couldn’t form words; he looked to the Third with a mute plea. He’d never—

“Shh,” murmured the Third. “You’re doing well. Your King will be very pleased.”

His cock jerked; for one hazy moment, he thought he would come right then and there.

He held on, barely. The vine finished pushing its way inside, and there was another moment’s pause as he adjusted to the sensation— never before had he felt so _full_.

Then the vine began to _thrust_ into him, and he keened. If he’d thought it’d taken all his power not to touch himself before, it was nothing compared to the effort it took to not double-over now.

And then he was being fucked _hard_ , the vine in his arse thrusting wildly, the ones at his cock beginning to move again, tugging and stroking and caressing until his body burned with pleasure, until his entire world narrowed to the vines in his arse and on his cock and those golden eyes upon him—

He came hard, his vision going white.

The power faded as his vision returned to him; the air was simply air again. The vines slipped out of him and fell away and he nearly swayed, but the image of his King standing over the war table came to him, and he thought, _no_.

Then the Third said in that same soothing voice, “Excellent. You may move.”

He’d scarcely finished speaking before the Page collapsed into a boneless, exhausted heap on the ground. 

Dimly, he was aware of the Third moving around him, muttering something under his breath— _banishing the circle_ , came the unbidden thought from somewhere in his subconsciousness. 

He felt as though he were melting into the floor; still, after several long moments, he managed to gather the energy to lift his head and croak out, “Did it work?”

“Hm?” The Third turned to him. “Oh, yes. Our enemy should be having a _very_ nasty surprise at the next battle.”

 _Good_ , thought the Page, though he couldn’t find the energy to say it out loud. He let his head fall back to the floor and allowed unconsciousness to take him.


End file.
